He drove to Hill Street, headed south to Sixth, then west. Traffic had congealed, tempers were fraying, horns farting. He switched on the police band and used it for background. The inflectionless, nonstop dialogue between dispatchers and patrol officers often lulls me drowsy. When I woke up, we were passing the county art museum on Wilshire just east of Fairfax.
He said, “Rise and shine. Let’s get some coffee.”
“Drop me at home and I’ll make a pot.”
“Not decaf, dude.”
“No prob.”
“Kenyan?”
“I think we’ve got that.”
“Think? I was hoping for a guarantee.”
“Life’s rough,” I said. “On the other hand, we definitely have biscotti. Robin baked some with candied citron.”
“Robin bakes?”
“Robin does anything she puts her mind to. One of the good things she got from her mother was a book of home recipes.”
“Biscotti,” he said. “Lovely language, Italian. Okay, fine, doesn’t have to be Kenyan. See? I’m doing what you tell me, being psychologically flexible.”
Sitting at my kitchen table, he downed three large mugs of Jamaican coffee and half a dozen biscotti before yawning.
Robin had come in two minutes ago and sat down with us. She smiled. “Want to take a nap, Big Guy?”
“Appreciate the offer but I’m calling it a day.” Leaning over, he pecked her cheek then bent and ruffled the folds of Blanche’s neck before pushing himself up.
I walked him out of the house and down to the Impala. “What’s next, Big Guy?”
“I do grunt work and you enjoy life. Something comes up, I’ll let you know.”
He walked to the driver’s side. Stopped, backtracked, squeezed my hand with both of his. Like being swaddled by oven mitts. “Yeah. Thanks.”
CHAPTER
9
Monday at two p.m., he called and said, “Three able detectives canvassing thoroughly, zero information.”
Tuesday at four p.m., he texted:Don’t know if it’s too short notice but Andrea Bauer’s coming by in an hour.
I’d just completed two custody reports and Robin would be working late, finishing a “dire emergency” repair on the neck of a celebrity rocker’s red-sparkle Telecaster. Koko Moe didn’t play a note and used the instrument the way a drum majorette employs a baton. But she needed to look “hot and hyper and hot,” and a limp, decapitated instrument wouldn’t cut it.
I went to Robin’s studio, kissed her, and looked at her workbench. “Artistic fulfillment.”
“We take it where we find it, darling.”
—
At two forty-seven, I arrived at Milo’s windowless, closet-sized office on the second floor of the West L.A. station. Other detectives work in a big room downstairs, saturated with human noise and clanging locker doors.
Years ago, my friend had been shoehorned into the apparently unworkable cell by a corrupt, soon-to-retire police chief who promoted Milo to lieutenant in return for silence about “errors of judgment” that would’ve jeopardized a huge city pension.
The chief felt smug, certain he’d gotten the better end of the deal. Unaware he’d earmarked the perfect den for this particular grizzly.
Lieutenants typically operate desks but Milo had leveraged the ability to keep working cases. When administrative tasks came up, he ignored them. Ditto memos, meetings, and paperwork outside the pages of blue-bound murder books.
